


The Seventh Sin

by lindenmae



Series: Bless me, Father [4]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:10:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tension between them has ruled their lives for too long, it is only expected that one of them would break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Heresy, non/con, religious imagery

It didn't take long for G to show up in Knuckle's small set of rooms after Daemon's betrayal. Knuckle wasn't surprised when the heavy wooden doors creaked open because he'd been expecting it, had known G would eventually come to him, just not for what. He wasn't delusional enough to think that G might come asking for forgiveness, might see these events as sort of an epiphany, that maybe the way he'd been living his life was not for the best after all. He didn't think the man would come bearing solace either. He'd seen the way G's eyes had flashed when Knuckle had agreed to fight, glinting with something sharp that Knuckle couldn't name. There had been a sick sort of happiness in G's expression at hearing Knuckle willingly give up everything he'd worked for, in order to support a cause that G was championing. So G was not there to console him, not there to offer sweet words of friendship and family and 'You don't have to do this, Knuckle' like the last dregs of childish optimism left in Knuckle's heart might be hoping.

But he didn't know why G was there, invading his last place of refuge, his entire presence so large it was suffocating. Knuckle crossed himself and sat back on his heels, waiting for G to speak. Knuckle, himself, had nothing to say to the other man, nothing of value, nothing that would get them past the invisible wall of tension they'd built separating them.  He’d seen G leave with Ugetsu afterwards, had watched them walk away together, too close to be unintentional, shoulders bumping every few steps, not by accident.  Anyone else looking would have just seen comrades in arms, close out of necessity, brothers, but Knuckle saw more because he’d experienced it.  He was a reluctant expert in G’s mannerisms and moods. 

G’s boots scuffed against the floor, that and his slow breathing the only sounds in the small room.  Knuckle pushed to his feet, adrenaline still coursing faintly through his limbs.  He was bigger than G, broader shoulders, more height, thicker muscle despite the years he’d given up on fighting.  He wasn’t as tall as Ugetsu, didn’t tower over G like the Japanese man did, but he could be imposing when he wanted to be, especially in a room this small.  He’d used that to his advantages more times than he could count, in the ring, in alleys, in dark and smoky pubs.  But when he was faced with the Storm Guardian, he felt small and weak.  He couldn’t call on his own strength or his faith when he was face to face with G, because G took up the entire room.  G was a presence that no one could ignore and it had been proven time and again that Knuckle was not immune.

Knuckle was already in his nightclothes, having begged out of any type of celebration of their victory.  He hadn’t trusted Spade anymore than the rest of them but for Giotto’s sake, he had hoped.  That kind of betrayal hadn’t seemed like something worth venerating.  He faced G, his back to the bed, and crossed his arms over his chest, rosary clutched tight in one hand.  G was looking away, down at his feet, his hands clenched tightly into fists at his hips. 

“What do you want?”  Knuckle finally spoke, ill at ease with the heavy tension in the room.  He didn’t ask with impatience, but spoke slowly, softly as he would to someone in his confessional.  He couldn’t be sure that wasn’t what this was.  He could never stop hoping that G would accept his help, that G would find some peace somehow.

G flexed the fingers of his right hand, relaxed his fist then coiled it tight again.  His jaw was set firm, eyes downcast but not sad, more like he didn’t want to look Knuckle in the eye or look at Knuckle at all.

“For so many years, I’ve followed him blindly.  I’ve laid my life on the line to protect him, to keep him happy and safe.  There is so much blood on my hands for _him_ , always for him.”  G spoke to the floor, unwilling to acknowledge his pseudo-confession.

“For who?”  He asked the question softly, like he was trying to soothe a startled animal.

G’s head snapped up, peculiar red eyes blazing with an internal fire that never died.  Knuckle would have been more wary had they been calm, blank, but they were no less unsettling when they landed on him.  G was an intense man, an explosive man.

“Don’t be dense.  I love Giotto, I _love_ him.  He is my best friend, my leader.  How could he have been so blind?  _How_?”

Knuckle didn’t have the answer G needed.  He didn’t know the response to a question he’d wondered himself, how Giotto could have put so much trust in Daemon Spade when they’d all had their own suspicions.  He wanted to know, more than anything he _wanted_ to have an answer for G that didn’t involve having faith.  He knew that wasn’t the kind of answer the man wanted.  G dealt with the concrete, things he could see, things he could feel, things he could _know._ He understood the feel of Knuckle’s skin beneath his palms, the overwhelming admiration in Ugetsu’s eyes, the love and acceptance in Giotto’s embrace.  Giotto’s was the only one whose words he would take as law with no collateral to back it up.  God’s word would never mean so much.

“I cannot answer that,” he said slowly, unfolding his arms.  “I want to, but I cannot.  I don’t know why Giotto does what he does but we must tru-“

“Don’t say it!  Do _not_ try to give me a speech about faith right now, _father._ I cannot play this game with you anymore.”

Knuckle stepped forward and curled his fingers tightly around the rosary, letting the arms of the cross dig into his skin.  The fires of Hell were the same color as G’s eyes, he was as certain of it as he was of his own existence. 

“Believe me, if I knew the rules to this _game_ of yours it would have been over long ago.  I _love_ you.”  G’s eyes widened, his mouth worked but no sound escaped.  Knuckle felt only the slightest vindication at silencing G.  “Not in the way that you love the swordsman, I am not so broken a man that I would fall in love with someone who so clearly despises me and everything I hold dear, but I _do_ love you.  You are my family, my brother.  I have told you this before and I meant it as much then as I do now.  I do not act to hurt you, G.  I act to save you from yourself.”

When G was faced with a truth he couldn’t accept, something that threatened his carefully created walls and ideals, he was like a caged animal, angry and ready to pounce.  He reflected that image now, eyes wild and muscles tensed.  Knuckle unwittingly took a step back.  It was small, nearly indiscernible, but it pressed his calves against the wood of the bedframe and showed weakness, weakness that G did not miss.  He pounced, moving smoothly through the air like a predator cat, lithe and strong.  He muscled into Knuckle’s space, fisting his hands in the front of Knuckle’s shift, breath hot against his neck. 

“What do you know?”  He hissed, his words slipping between his tongue and teeth like steam.  “What do you know of love?”

“Enough.  More than you, I think.  Have you even admitted the way you feel about him to yourself?  Does he know, or does he base his trust in you on nothing at all.  _That_ is love, G.  Giving yourself to someone on _blind faith_ alone.  Why can you not see that?  _Why do you insist on holding yourself back?_ ”

It was dangerous to provoke G in such close quarters.  G was already so close, their chests pressed together, every unsteady breath pressing them closer.  But Knuckle lacked strength when it came to G.  Everything he’d just spent so many minutes praying for, lost in the face of this fearsome Guardian.  G’s face contorted as if he was in agony and Knuckle could feel his heart beating furiously against his ribcage, a bird trying to escape its cage.  And he could feel G’s arousal pressing hard against his hip, a reaction to the adrenaline, to the close proximity.  But that did not explain away his own.

“I’m not good enough for him,” G whispered and Knuckle didn’t ask whom he meant.  G looked him in the eye, fierce and furious and near to breaking.  Knuckle could feel it coming, the breaking point, and he could have pushed G away, could have contained the impending explosion, but he lacked the power when pinned by that crimson gaze.

“G, please don’t do this,” he managed to whisper and he’d never be sure if G even heard him, could never be certain that G wasn’t already moving as he spoke, pushing him down against the bed, pinning him against the mattress. 

He wouldn’t lie to himself and pretend that he struggled very hard, that he bucked up against G’s body in any way that could not be construed as encouraging.  He didn’t want this to happen, he _didn’t_ , because it was against everything he believed in and stood for and _wanted_ out of life.  But he _needed_ , he needed like anyone else. 

“Don’t do this,” he whispered again and it was choked and thick against the hot skin of G’s neck. 

This was the culmination of everything, the swan dive off a cliff onto the jagged rocks below, into the frothing sea. 

G didn’t kiss him, didn’t gently caress Knuckle’s skin with his fingertips.  He rucked up Knuckle’s shift with his fist, reaching beneath the cotton with his other hand to find Knuckle’s cock, half-hard but reluctant.  G closed his fingers around the muscle and squeezed, too rough and too tight, and Knuckle arched against it even as he tried to pull away.  There was nowhere for him to go, nowhere he _wanted_ to go.  G released his hold on Knuckle’s  shift, leaving it bunched up beneath the priest’s chin, and sucked two of his own fingers into his mouth, working his tongue around and between them until they were drenched with spit.

Knuckle felt the fingers enter him, uncomfortable and cold despite the heat of G’s mouth, but he didn’t cry out, just panted and clenched his fingers in the bedclothes, squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.  G pulled his fingers free before there was time enough for Knuckle to become used to the intrusion.  Despite the grip G still had on his cock, it was still only half there and wilting fast.  He didn’t try to pull G back when the other man’s heat left him.  He didn’t dare hope it was over, but he was grateful for the reprieve, for the space to breathe.  There was the clatter of something metal falling to the floor but Knuckle didn’t look, didn’t care.  G was back within seconds, his movements softer this time, gentler but still not what they should be, would never be with them.  Knuckle looked at him then and the fire had gone out of G’s gaze.  It gave Knuckle a hollow feeling in his chest, like an aching, yawning cavern had opened behind his ribcage.

Knuckle dared to reach up and thread his fingers through G’s fiery tresses, cradling the back of the archer’s head with his palm.  G choked out a sob and then Knuckle knew where G had gone and what the clatter had been when he felt the oil-slicked head of G’s cock breaching him, tearing him apart from the inside out.  Knuckle was aware of unbearable pain, of feeling broken apart.  G was warm against him, a solid weight, thrusting against him, _inside_ of him, until it was suddenly done, and where Knuckle had felt ripped open there was a soothing warmth and just the feel of G shaking against his chest, mumbling into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  Knuckle was vaguely aware of G’s fingers curling around his fully softened cock again, stroking gently, bringing him back to hardness even despite the burning ache in his lower back.

He moaned weakly, dragged his hand through G’s hair with a heavy arm, eyes falling shut.  He came with weak spurts, his cock jerking half-heartedly in G’s grasp, but Knuckle couldn’t focus on it, distracted by the feel of G’s lips still forming apologies against his shoulder.  They’d thrown themselves to the wolves, succumbed to the demons that had been plaguing them for so long and Knuckle could have felt betrayed and angry but instead he just felt tired and weak.  But there was a sense of peace that washed over him, a warmth that put him at ease.  G had finally broken and Knuckle could only hope that they could begin the road to recovery now, together, as brothers.

 


End file.
